


Unmoored

by Ralkana



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Birthday, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Fluff and Angst, Gift Fic, Introspection, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Pheels, Phil Coulson Needs a Hug, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil's been drifting since he came back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmoored

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msraven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msraven/gifts).



> For Raven, on her birthday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Sorry, it's full of pheels. They snuck up on me.
> 
> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toys, not mine. I'm just playing with them.
> 
> **Kind of vaguely spoilery for Agents of SHIELD. I don't think for anything in particular, but if I'm wrong, let me know, and I'll try to tag it better.**

 

Phil wakes up slowly. The sun is slanting through the tiny window, and his bunk on the Bus is filled with golden light. It's warm on his skin, and his breath catches as the sensation causes hazy, fragmented memories to flit teasingly through his mind.

He lies still and silent, listening to his own breathing, his heart beating steady in his chest. He rolls out of bed, joints aching, scars throbbing, and prepares for the day, every article of clothing chosen with precise care, no weaknesses allowed in his armor.

They are parked somewhere outside Detroit, and the Bus is quiet -- he's the first one up. He usually is, though sometimes he and May run into each other very early in the tiny galley.

This morning he's alone, his thoughts far too loud in his head as he goes through the familiar motions. Toast. Coffee. Juice. All the things Streiten and the others have said he needs, good nutrition and exercise and more fiber and less red meat, things he can't ignore anymore, not if he wants to make this second chance last.

It's his birthday, he thinks as he sips his coffee. A birthday he didn't think he'd reach -- a birthday he knows he shouldn't have reached.

He feels out of time, a little displaced, a disquieting feeling he never gets rid of. It's like the world kept moving during those eight seconds he was dead ( _longer than eight seconds, it was longer than eight seconds_ , and he pushes that thought away in frustration), and he can never quite get them back.

Scrolling through the news on his tablet, he feels detached. Things happen, and he observes them, but something is missing. Some part of him is cold and curled in on itself, shivering within him.

He wants to call Nick, to hear his voice, gruff and familiar, and he wants to demand answers. _Why did you bring me back?_ he wants to shout. _What am I doing here?_

The work he's doing is important, it's true, but it's nothing that no one else couldn't do. What was so crucial that they couldn't let him go?

The others trickle into the galley, slowly, singly, muttering greetings and rubbing at sleepy eyes as they down coffee and pour cereal and juice. He watches them, smiles, proud of their progress, proud of the way they've knit together, formed a solid team, and yet he's not part of it. They think he is, they feel he is, some part of him yearns to be, but he is not.

An alarm starts up, beeps steadily and they all glance at each other. May reaches over and slaps at a panel, bringing a monitor to life.

"Proximity alarm," she says, and Phil's steady breaths stutter to a halt at the image on the screen.

A purple Challenger is approaching the Bus, bright and shiny and new, and he's never seen it before, but he knows. He knows.

The confused murmurs and the chatter of his team get lost in the rushing noise of his thoughts, and all the muted colors of the world fade out even more as he focuses on the bright paint job of the car on the screen. His breath eases out on the smallest of laughs.

This. This is why he came back, this is why he needs to be here. Not close, never close, this was never meant to be his anyway, but if he can be in this world to watch this man from afar, to watch over him as he heals and laughs and loves and lives, then that is enough. From afar is enough.

But he is here now, and Phil's entire body strains toward him. He stands, and his team falls quiet around him.

"Sir?" Ward asks. "What should we do?"

"Nothing," Phil says easily, and his voice is steady, his hands are steady, no hint of the turmoil that's raging within him. "I'll handle this."

He walks through the Bus, lowers the ramp, his gait even, no sign of the way his knees want to tremble and fail him. That cold, shivering part of him stretches, longing to unfurl, to fill him with warmth, safety, happiness, and he tries to push it down, to find again the cold emptiness that he's dwelled in for so long now, but it's gone, shattered to pieces by the presence of the man now climbing out of the bright purple car.

Phil stops, and they stare at each other, six feet between them that might be six miles, might be nothing at all.

He looks good. Strong, and steady, and well-rested, Phil thinks, ignoring the longing to move closer, to touch, to taste, to breathe in his scent, drown in it, fill the gaping empty places within himself.

"Clint," he says evenly.

The other man's composure breaks then, just for an instant, his face crumpling, shoulders folding in on themselves.

"Phil," he breathes, his voice raw, a wreck of emotion, and then he catches himself, takes a deep, shaky breath, expression smoothing out, shoulders going back. "Happy birthday."

He glances past Phil, at the Bus looming over him, casting its shadow over them both, and he says, "Can we... I need to talk to you. Somewhere that's not... here."

Phil nods and moves toward the passenger side of the car, opening the door and stopping short at the little white paper bag that sits on the seat. Clint slides into the driver's seat and lifts the bag out of the way so Phil can settle himself in. The car still smells new, and it is immaculate, but Phil is not surprised. Clint takes care of his things, having never had too much to call his own.

Clint tosses the bag at him and Phil catches it out of reflex.

"Birthday donut," Clint tells him, eyes front, not looking at Phil as he turns the car around and heads back out of the airfield where they've overnighted.

Phil knows without looking that it's his favorite donut from his favorite bakery, and his mouth waters at the thought of the glazed dough, the sweet jelly filling.

"I shouldn't," he says out of reflex and Clint swears, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

"It's your damn birthday, you can have a fucking donut on your birthday." His voice is a low rasp, full of anger and too many other emotions for Phil to name. Phil blinks in surprise.

"I don't want to make a mess in your car."

Clint's laugh is harsh. "Coulson, I've seen you eat a six pack of powdered sugar donuts without getting a speck of sugar on your suit. Besides, it's just a damn car."

So Phil eats the donut, swallowing back the happy noises that want to escape. It's sweet, and the jelly is tart, and it's the best thing Phil's eaten since... since.

They drive for a few minutes in silence. Phil doesn't know where they're going, and he doesn't much care. Being near Clint is enough, even if it's something he's going to have to give up soon. For now it's enough.

They find a park, a tiny green space in the the gray of the city. Like much of the city around them it has been basically abandoned, and nature is slowly reclaiming it. They walk, side by side, up the overgrown path through the flourishing trees, the sweltering heat of a summer day already upon them. Sweat trickles down Phil's skin and dampens the collar of his shirt.

Clint sits on a worn wooden bench, glances up until Phil sits beside him. There is silence, charged silence, building toward something, and then --

"I can't do this anymore," Clint grits out. "I can't... pretend that you don't exist, that that doesn't mean anything, when it means _everything_."

"Clint -- "

"We have to stop punishing ourselves," Clint says, and Phil blinks in surprise.

"Is that... what you think we're doing?" he asks, but he knows. He knows he has been, the guilt weighing heavily on him, wrapping itself around his heart until he can't breathe through it. He just didn't realize Clint felt the same.

"Of course we are," Clint says with a laugh, his voice harsh, broken. "It's not your fault I got taken, Phil."

"And it's not your fault I died."

Clint's breath breaks on a sob, and he scrubs his hands over his face. "But I came back and you came back, and we're here, Phil. We're _here._ But I can't do this alone... they think I'm fine, they all think I'm fine, but he took -- he took my heart and I can't, I can't -- "

His breath comes fast, his panic rising and Phil doesn't think, he just pulls Clint close until he's wrapped in Phil's arms, his face buried in Phil's neck.

"So alone," Clint gasps into his skin. "I've been all alone."

Phil's breath catches as his arms tighten around Clint, tears slipping helplessly from his eyes. "Me too," he murmurs, thinking of every cold, lonely morning he's spent since he woke up alone and afraid and disoriented. The aching emptiness he's been buried under, even when laughing and surrounded by his team. "God, Clint, me too."

"I don't... I don't know how we can do this," Clint says, arms wrapped so tightly around Phil's waist that Phil has to struggle to breathe -- and yet, it feels like the first full breath he's taken in over a year. "I mean -- you're here and I'm -- "

"We'll figure it out," Phil tells him, brushing a kiss into the damp hair at Clint's temple. "We'll figure it out together."

He doesn't know how they'll make it work, but they will. Whatever reasons Nick had, whatever justifications SHIELD and the WSC toss back and forth for his resurrection, _this_ is the true reason he came back, he knows it in his heart, in his bones, in his soul, and he's not going to give it up again.

**END**


End file.
